


Successful Intimidation and Excessive Sarcasm

by SixtySevenChevy



Category: Sherlock (TV), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-24
Updated: 2014-06-24
Packaged: 2018-02-06 02:21:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1840777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SixtySevenChevy/pseuds/SixtySevenChevy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone in MI6 is terrified of Mycroft Holmes. To be anything else is be to be foolhardy and overconfident, two characteristics that mark a poor agent and will invariably lead to an early grave. Mycroft Holmes possesses more power than the entire rest of Great Britain put together and has a condescending smile that speaks of an ability to use said power for very nefarious purposes. No one in his or her right mind is willing to go within ten feet of him, lest they somehow incur his wrath.</p>
<p>Except, of course, Q, who is most certainly not afraid and instead exchanges quips and insults as though he's not ten seconds away from being killed by the man no one seems to know is his brother. Mycroft is exasperated, Bond is intrigued (read: attracted) and Q is just so done with everyone in this building.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Successful Intimidation and Excessive Sarcasm

**Author's Note:**

> Hi y'all. I don't know what I'm doing here. Basically, I'm channeling my penchant for cruel sarcasm into something productive. I made up the other assorted 00s because I know nothing, so forgive that. You should also know that I haven't posted anything for a long time, so be gentle. I'm very much out of the whole fandom thing for now due to life being a thing that happens, but this was too good an idea to resist.

Everyone in MI6 is terrified of Mycroft Holmes. To be anything else is be to be foolhardy and overconfident, two characteristics that mark a poor agent and will invariably lead to an early grave. Mycroft Holmes possesses more power than the entire rest of Great Britain put together and has a condescending smile that speaks of an ability to use said power for very nefarious purposes. No one in his or her right mind is willing to go within ten feet of him, lest they somehow incur his wrath.

Not even James Bond is immune to that stare of his.

It’s not often that Mycroft ends up in the MI6 building, but when he does, everyone stays clear. Emails go out within ten minutes of his presence being made known, forwarded to everyone in the building with a clear warning. _Steer clear. Holmes imminent._

When Q gets the email, he rolls his eyes and continues working. When the rest of MI6 get the email, they scurry away to the lower levels and hide out in offices, lying through their teeth about needing to do something very important somewhere—anywhere—else. The double-ohs tend to cluster in a locker room together, emerging only once the all-clear goes out.

They may have to risk their lives for a living, but not one of them has a death wish.

During one of Mycroft Holmes’s visits, Bond is sitting calmly on a bench in a less-used locker room, listening to the inane chatter of several other agents. Mycroft (they can’t even simply call him by his last name, because then they might accidentally confuse him for his brother, who is nearly as terrifying and has far fewer inhibitions) has been in M’s office for nearly half an hour. This can only mean that the world as they know it is about to come to an end in a rather spectacular fashion, likely involving explosions and some form of espionage. 

“I bet,” says 003, a petit blonde woman with sleeve tattoos of various flowers, all of which are poisonous. “I bet they make James deal with whatever crisis has arisen. They always favor him for the dangerous ones.”

“That’s because he’s best at deciding when to obey Q and when to ignore his every word,” 008 replies, rubbing a hand across four-day-old stubble. His left arm is in a sling, much to his obvious annoyance. Serves him right, honestly, for thinking that flipping a car was the best course of action. Dislocated shoulders tend to make Medical frown and insist upon silly things like slings. Bond knows from experience.

003 smirks. “Yes, you’re very close to him, aren’t you?” she teases. Bond decides not to kill her yet. At least, not with so many witnesses. It would be a shame to have to wipe out the entire double-oh sector at once. M would be very disappointed.

“Not nearly as close as you wish,” he replies smoothly instead, and she laughs. It’s harshly loud in this echoing room. 

“No, I suspect not. Oh well. Maybe when Mycroft leaves you can slink off to Q-Branch and—ow!” She cuts off mid-sentence when 002 pinches her.

“Hush. We wouldn’t want someone to hear us, now would we?” 002 murmurs fiercely, and they fall silent. There are only four of them hunkered in this abandoned locker room, far from the more well-travelled parts of the building, but sound carries excellently through the vents. “Be quite embarrassing, to be found cowering like children.”

008 scoffs. “As if they’d blame us. Mycroft is fucking scary. And I don’t scare easily.”

Bond rolls his eyes at that. Mycroft himself isn’t actually that frightening. It’s the prospect of what he could _do_ , if given the notion, that sends an icy tendril of worry into the hearts of every hardened field agent. Mycroft could dig up things from the past that could have them all out on the street without even a word. He could plant false information, make sure a mission went spectacularly pear-shaped, or engineer a convenient information leak without regret, of that Bond was certain. Something in those eyes was too hard, too calculating, for even a double-oh with gallons of blood on his hands to stand without unease. 

He’s about to reply with something witty when their phones chirp in unison. The split-second stricken expressions of half-fear that cross all their faces involuntarily will be denied vehemently until all their deaths. Bond is a fully grown man with four weapons on his person, for God’s sake. He is not afraid of what the contents of a text message hold.

There’s a collective sigh of relief when they discover who the messages are from. It’s Q, of course, confused and more than a little irritated, from the clipped way his text comes across. _You’re all hiding in a locker room somewhere like skittish children, aren’t you?_

“Bond, you reply,” 002 hisses. “You’re his favorite.”

Bond scowls at her, but does it anyway. _Mycroft Holmes is in the building. It’s collectively held that hiding is a perfectly reasonable response._

The reply is quick in coming. _Tell me you’re joking._

Bond reads it aloud, and 003 frowns. “Maybe he doesn’t know because he’s new? Maybe nobody’s told him yet.”

“Or maybe his sense of self-preservation is severely lacking. Kids these days, you know,” 008 muses. Bond doesn’t reply, because though he’s not wrong, there’s no real need to say anything in response. Q will learn, someday. Hopefully someone from Q-Branch tells him to avoid Mycroft before he does something monumentally stupid.

 

Q frowns down at his phone, pausing in his coding. Surely Bond isn’t being serious. _Tell me you’re joking,_ he texts back, and momentarily forgets about whatever is was he was doing. His attention span has never been the best, though he’s much better at focusing than Sherlock. Mycroft somehow managed to get enough focus for all three of them. 

A door closes loudly and three interns scuttle in, faces pale. They’re breathing fairly heavily, and Q calculates that it should be about five seconds before they explain themselves, so he doesn’t ask, instead going back to the code on his computer. 

“We just saw Mycroft Holmes in the hall,” one of the interns says, five seconds after slamming the door. Everyone in the immediate vicinity perks up, obviously intrigued. Q resists the urge to roll his eyes at them.

“How long ago?” one of the other technicians says—her name begins with an L, he knows, but he’s never been good with names. That’s more Mycroft’s area of talent. When he thinks about it, Mycroft has the most positive traits of the three of them. Sure, Sherlock is observant and cunning, and Q is highly intelligent, but Mycroft knows how to make the world work for him in ways that the other two can only guess at.

“About a minute. He looked… cheerful.” The confusion is obvious in the intern’s voice, and the other two nod in horrified agreement. Q sighs. 

_Why is MI6 afraid of you? -Q_

_Because they know what I am capable of. –MH_

_You’re not scary. –Q_

_Ah, but I am. –MH_

Q does roll his eyes then, because Mycroft has always had a predisposition for drama. It runs in the family. 

“That bodes ill,” the tech whose name begins with L says. Q can’t help but agree. Mycroft is normally fairly imposing. A cheerful Mycroft means that national security is severely compromised and it’s MI6’s job to clean up the mess. The eldest Holmes certainly likes to watch them scurry about to fix whatever was broken. In truth, Q could probably retrieve whatever data was stolen within five minutes, but the agents do need something to do with themselves. 

“Yes, of course it does. Now, I’d appreciate it if we could focus on the problem at hand,” Q says briskly, and the interns and technicians quickly duck their heads. The sound of typing fills the room. 

Having this much power is slightly scary.

XXXXX

The all-clear goes out about an hour after the warning, but the double-ohs aren’t in a particular hurry to reemerge. They’re all on post-mission leave (or medical leave, in 008’s case) and don’t have anything pressing to attend to. It’s a rare occasion when more than two of them are in the same place, and most of them tend to like to keep a friendship going. 

“I wonder what he was here for.” 003 twirls a lock of hair around her finger. 

“Probably to discuss national security,” 008 replies. “Why else?”

“Blackmail,” 004 suggests.

“Personal matters?” 003 says. Bond shakes his head at that one. A man like Mycroft Holmes does not have close family relationships, if he even has family. And non-familial relationships are even less likely. 

“He most likely came to hand down a dangerous mission, which will no doubt be given to one of us shortly,” he says, and the others murmur in agreement. He honestly doesn’t know why they always listen to and agree with whatever he says. Age does not equal competence, as they well know, thanks to their Quartermaster. 

Bond’s phone goes off again. “Speak of the devil,” he mutters, and opens the text. It’s a summons, of course, telling him in no uncertain terms that he ought to get up to M’s office, immediately. National security at stake, as per usual.

“Good luck,” 003 says, obviously glad that it isn’t her. 

Bond heaves a put-upon sigh and goes.

 

When he gets to M’s office, small congregation has already been assembled. Moneypenny is there, looking stylish and bemused as per usual. M is sitting behind his desk with a slightly worried facial expression, which is most likely a result of whatever new threat to Queen and Country has popped up now. Q is there as well, though Bond can’t fathom why.

“Ah, Bond. Good of you to join us,” M says smoothly, slightly absently. Bond doesn’t react, though he’d like to ask what is so wrong that it has even M worried. “As soon as the last member of this group, arrives, we can begin.”

They wait, Moneypenny and Q making minute faces at each other to pass the time. M flips through some report or other, boredom seeping into his eyes. Bond simply leans against the wall in such a way that he can watch the exit and still keep an eye on everyone else in the room.

They don’t have to wait long. Approximately a minute after Bond arrived, Mycroft Holmes walks in.

“I do hope I haven’t kept you waiting,” he says by way of greeting. Bond blinks once in surprise and quickly schools his expression back in stoicism. Moneypenny is doing the same, though slightly slower on the uptake. M doesn’t react.

Q, on the other hand, huffs in irritation. “I should have known you would be involved.”

Mycroft raises one eyebrow. “And why ever wouldn’t I be?”

“Because MI6 is actually filled with people who can handle themselves without your involvement?” Q snaps, and Mycroft’s other eyebrow joins the first. Moneypenny is obviously holding her breath. Bond is beginning to wonder if Q has some sort of death wish. Most likely, he concludes.

“I’m not entirely sure they can,” Mycroft replies smoothly, seemingly not bothered. Bond recognizes the look in his eyes. It’s the fire of a man who is calm in the moment, but will destroy the life of his aggressor the minute he’s out of public view. Bond has been on the receiving end of such a look many times, but never to this degree, and never from someone as dangerous as Mycroft Holmes.

“In either case, they are actually capable of organizing the infiltration of a terrorist cell. They do it weekly,” Q says. Moneypenny is tapping _SOS_ in Morse code against her thigh. The feeling is mutual.

“Yes, but they might need information about said terrorist cell that only I can give,” Mycroft muses.

Q, the fucking idiot, rolls his eyes. “We both know that anything you know, I also know. And more.”

Mycroft laughs, and Bond tenses. Laughter is never a good sign when coming from such a dangerous man. It usually promises pain to come, death to follow. 

“If we could get back to the situation at hand, dear Quartermaster?” he says delicately, and Q smirks. The idiot probably thinks he’s won. Bond doesn’t want to be around when Q is inevitably kidnapped, roughed up, and given a stern warning not to cross a Holmes. 

 

The mission lasts five days—five quick but brutal days full of mad running about in a desert with sand in every available crevice, sunburned and heat-stricken. He manages to complete the objective without causing himself too much bodily harm, save for a broken nose and possible concussion. Not bad, as far as 007 is concerned. The trail of bodies in his wake is minimal, which is something of a surprise, because he is notorious for carnage and bedlam. 

Bond spends most of the plane ride back to headquarters asleep against the window, only waking once or twice due to turbulence and then dropping off again without a second thought. He’s been up and running for nearly three days straight now, and a mild coma would not go unappreciated. 

When he finally gets back to the MI6 building, his feet drag and his eyelids weigh a substantial amount, but he avoids Medical with every fiber of his being. Instead, he makes his way down to Q-Branch to return what little tech he’d managed to bring back with him.

When he finally stumbles his way into Q-Branch, he is immediately startled out of his stupor. Mycroft Holmes is there, leaning against a desk and glaring at Q’s back with an intensity that would make most men cower. Q is typing with one hand while texting with the other, completely ignoring the terrified silence of the entire department and the occasional tsks of annoyance from Mycroft. Bond stays by the door and tries to go unnoticed.

“If you’re going to stand there, 007, I’d appreciate it if you did so in a less threatening manner,” Q says, not taking his eyes off the screen before him. Bond forces his shoulders to relax, and Q sighs. “I honestly cannot fathom why this entire building is so frightened by Mycroft.”

“Because they ought to be,” Mycroft answers smoothly, with a slight smirk that may or may not belie condescending amusement. It’s gone as soon as it appears. “I can be quite frightening, when I choose.”

Q snorts in derision, and Bond wonders if he’s just very socially inept. He knows for a fact that Q has been warned repeatedly to steer clear of Mycroft Holmes. Possibly he’s too arrogant to think that Mycroft could be a threat. Or he’s just deeply reckless when it comes to personal safety.

“You’re about as threatening as I am, which is to say, not very.”

Bond very much disagrees with that statement. He’s seen with Q can do, if given a computer and about an hour to break down defenses and program things to obey his wishes. It’s disturbing, the way he can manipulate the world around him with barely a keystroke. It’s also incredibly hot.

Mycroft bares his teeth in what could either be a smile or a grimace. “I do believe you’re overestimating your intimidation factor.”

Q sighs. “Don’t you have somewhere to be? Running a government or something? At the very least, go check on Sherlock. You know what he gets up to when he’s on his own.”

“He does have a flatmate now,” Mycroft says, and it takes Bond a second to realize that they’re talking about Mycroft’s brother. It’s not even surprising that Q knows Mycroft’s brother. Q probably knows everything about everyone. At least, everything that can be accessed using software and a few masterful hacks. It’s one of the many things Bond appreciates about him.

“Right, the army doctor. I wonder how long that one will last,” Q murmurs, finally turning from his coding. He slips his phone into a pocket and settles a glare on Mycroft, matching the intensity in a heartbeat. Bond has to admit, Q has a backbone. He files this information away for future use.

“He seems quite enamored,” Mycroft says primly, and Q’s expression is one of contempt.

“He always is, for the first week. Then he figures out how his new plaything works, and tosses it aside for a new one. It’s the way he works.”

“Then I suppose there is something to be said about genetics,” Mycroft says, and the danger is there, just under his calm expression. Bond gets the distinct impression that, if necessary, Mycroft could kill him in under ten minutes, their physical differences be damned. It’s a feeling he gets about Q sometimes.

“Yes, quite. Now do us both a favor and leave before someone suffers cardiac failure as a result of too much heightened adrenaline.” To everyone’s great surprise, Mycroft goes without a complaint, though he somehow manages to make it look like it was his idea entirely. Q watches the door swing shut with amusement, the type reserved for a particularly interesting pet or a small child who’s just done something adorable. “Now, 007, have you actually managed to bring back your weapons this time?”

 

About a week later, Bond is still on forced medical leave while his concussion heals. If he had his way, he’d have been back in the field within a day of returning. Nothing makes him restless like sitting around without anything important to do. It makes his hands itch.

He takes to skulking around Q-Branch, just watching Q work. He has very lovely hands, Bond thinks, all long fingers and delicate grace. Bond has no doubt that he could break those fingers without much effort, but the idea is repulsive and doesn’t bear thinking about. Q without his hands would be a bird without wings; unable to serve its primary function and thus doomed to die on the ground.

After nearly three days of lurking about the shadows while the sound of typing fills the room, Mycroft Holmes makes yet another appearance. The background noises die almost instantly, every intern and technician slowing their work to watch warily as Mycroft stalks his way into the room. He doesn’t look threatening. Rather unassuming, really. Just another man in a fine suit coming to work for the good of his country.

Q groans. “If you’re going to antagonize me, at least do it while I’m not at work. Nothing ever seems to get done while you’re here.”

Mycroft rolls his eyes exaggeratedly. “Do try not to be so dramatic. I’m only here for a short time.”

“Not short enough,” Q quips, brushing his hair out of his eyes. “If you’re going to insist on looming about, you can at least make yourself useful. Hold this.” He presses a syringe into Mycroft’s hand. Mycroft stares at him with something like surprise. In the back of the room, Bond can hear money changing hands. Possibly a bet on how long it would take before Q’s incessant sarcasm and lack of survival instincts caught up with him and ended with a dead Quartermaster. 

Mycroft eyes the syringe with disdain. “What is in this?”

“Mainly arsenic, though there’s also some heroin, and a few other assorted chemicals,” Q replies, fishing around in his desk drawers for something. He pulls out a large rubber band and frowns at it. “We’ve been trying to find a neutralizing agent that can be injected at the same time as the arsenic. Agents like to try to poison their marks, you see, but the marks are understandably suspicious when offered a vial of a strange new drug no one’s ever heard of.”

“So you’re trying to find a poison with a built-in antidote?” Bond asks, because this is something he’s interested in. This is something that would have been useful on several past missions.

“Yes, and no.” Q stretches the rubber band between his hands. “Theoretically, there will be two vials. An agent will offer the ‘drugs’ to the mark, promising a wonderful high with generally few nasty side-effects. The mark, naturally suspicious, will only feel comfortable when the agent also shoots up. But what the mark doesn’t know is that the agent has taken the neutralized poison, leaving them time to dispose of the body and catch a flight home the next morning.”

“Incredible,” Bond mutters. Q grins, bright and pleased. Bond tries to ignore the flipping of his heart. James Bond does not feel emotions. Certainly not mushy ones.

Mycroft stares at Q appraisingly, and says, “Don’t let Sherlock get ahold of that.”

Q laughs a little. “He’d destroy the world with this.”

Mycroft frowns. “I shudder to think what Mummy would do if she found out you had that.”

One corner of Q’s mouth quirks up. “Probably she’d just shout. That’s what she did when Sherlock went to rehab the first time.”

Mycroft nods distantly, as though remembering something he’d rather forget. Bond doesn’t notice too much else, because he’s thinking. Surely Mycroft didn’t just refer to his mother in casual conversation.

“Anyway,” Q blusters on, either not noticing or not caring that Bond is having a minute crisis. “You’re not going to tell her. You’re also not going to tell Sherlock. If you so much as breathe a word, I will ruin you.”

Mycroft laughs then, and it sounds genuine. It makes Bond’s skin crawl. No one as widely feared and as deeply dangerous as Mycroft Holmes should be able to laugh genuinely. “I trust that you’d wait until after Christmas to ruin me. You know what a family dinner is like when I’m absent.”

Q groans. “Please tell me we aren’t being forced into another Christmas dinner.”

“We are,” Mycroft confirms. “And you’ll be there, right on time, as per usual. Bring a plus-one if you must.”

“I loathe you,” Q mutters.

“Of course you do, brother dear,” Mycroft replies happily, and takes his leave.

The silence that remains is tense.

Q is the one to break it. “You’re all having mental breakdowns right now, aren’t you?” There are a few numb nods from the room at large. Q frowns, sighs, and leans against the desk. “Alright then. Take your time. He’s my older brother, if you must know. But I did get this job based on skill alone, as no one is aware of our relation.”

Bond knew the slight danger he occasionally senses in Q was familiar. 

It takes a minute or so, but slowly the noise in the room picks back up. Bond doesn’t say anything. What is there to say, really, when the man you may be non-platonically interested in turns out to be the younger brother of the most feared man in the building?

Q turns to him. “Now then. How would you feel about getting dinner sometime?”

Bond grins at him, slow and predatory. “Absolutely.”

Q’s answering grin is equal in every way. “And don’t think you can exchange sex for secrets about my brothers. I’m very good a withstanding bribery.”

“I bet you are,” Bond mutters, and Q’s cheeks flush ever-so-slightly.


End file.
